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Looks at the roads been travelled
every morn when he awakes,
Smiles at his few glories
and sheds tears for his mistakes.
Can feel the ancient breezes
that have long since passed this way,
Their echoes are still ringing
through the sins for which he’ll pay.
Been forced into the valleys,
his journeys kept to the dark,
The guiding light's holding hope
in nothing more than a spark.
Prayers remain unrecognized
deep in shadows of his gloom,
The mirror keeps his secret
underneath a pale costume.
He’s become but a number
on a faded page long creased,
And hung up like memories
in the bellies of the priests.